a rose-orange daisy a mix-up an infinity a symphony in c# minor a busy life the prey of absence a seance another covenant for you and me a path towards spring gainsbourg et simone play for our hearts blue butterflies both of us joy without end a tenderness that offends that nourishes that embraces that inflames our spirits then the march of women come their legs their arms hand in hand they never finish we are friends sweetness we are lovers (fem) of lovers (fem) cream and sugar beauty voluptuousness whips and wings somber eyes deepest night blue of sky a veil of skin to touch to flirt to triumph on the hill behind the fields i find my lover awaiting me and me without age without plot without scars rebirths my body and gives all glory to thee
Flowers from last year's garden by Barbary Chaapel
une marguérite rose-orange un mélange un infini une symphonie en do dièse mineur une vie toute prise la proie de l'absence une voie une autre loi pour toi et moi un chemin vers le printemps gainsbourg et simone tous les jours les papillons bleus nous deux la joie sans cesse la tendresse qui blesse qui nourit qui embrasse qui enflamme nos âmes puis la marche des femmes viennent ses jambes ses bras et la main dans la main elles ne finissent pas nous sommes amies douceur nous sommes amantes des amantes crème et sucre beauté volupté fouets et ailes yeux sombres brun foncé bleu clair et une voile de chair toucher flirter triompher sur la colline derrière les champs je trouve mon amante qui m'attend et moi sans âge sans complot sans plaies renait mon corps et te donne la gloire
Do you think this bodyhas anything to do with meat all,
this heart that throbs its seventy beats per minute, this blood thick and coarse,these uneven rhythms like ocean, this veined arm full of scarsraised over my head for effluence,
these rubber ribbons wrapped 'round it and pumped up large with green vinyl and frail wires,then gauged and recorded like
every nickel-and-dime thoughtin the daily diary I try to keep?
This heart is not an organ at all, no, not a thing beating for a season
but an idea that sings with everybreaking dawn and blazing sunset
I've seen, as I sit on the rocks west ofall my travelled highways and brokered mountains,somewhere at the edge of a worldwhere
time itself stands still,a second bleeding into hours,
colors bent wider with light,and the mind quiet as twilight
in blind anticipation thathearts will again pump bloodand
tides will be drawn in and out,as we give ourselves overto
our great motherand trust her to fulfillher gravitational pull.
Nothing but nothing is what itseems, for each thing stands as
a representatative idea. So whatdo i have to do with this body,
this hot blood, this muscular heart, the elastin of my arms, when i am in love withthe silver moon and hersymbolic works?
And I tell you,nothing, except this heart so full it hurts.
And what do i have todo with pain at all but love?
And what do i have to do with death or birth when i'm a bird
withan endless ocean to cross anda song for every season?
i need something anything perhaps i'm bored and flat i'm getting fat and flabby waiting around for another idea totake me into astratosphere of sound i'm too silently wound tight as a drum and dull my arms hurt like hell as i work the keyboard my eyes catch aglimpse of film sex with sound, wow! and i think with a laugh perhaps what i need is a good fuck like that! but then sigh out loud 'cause that's no cureat all for what pains me it's too temporary toocorporealand it's violent as hell
no, i need a poem that fits me betterthan any sexy trickin the book it assuagesmy sense of worthlessness it gets me out into public life and sends waves of being into this otherwise tepid nothingness needs needs needs hound me day and night and keepme fighting, seeking, hoping for something fresh, something true to wake me upout of this lousy nightmare but a good poemlike a good cigartakes off the edge sucks out the foamfrom my diminishing brain and lets it breathe again
a good poem i need a good poem could be yours but ought to be mine i can't live my lifewithout writing i don't want to liveif i can't think to put words to it to that which has no words i love my children my friends i love my manfor what he is but a good poemis like being able tobreathe after suffocating like food after a rescue from seven days inthe desert with no umbrella no water a good poemdoesn't come after prayer it comes on the backs of all the bad ones that i've writ in despair it comes when you say enough of this crap this laziness and pain! i'm gonna write one today and to hell with this brain! ok i can't think, i admit it! can barely feel to think ok i'm caught like a stupid seal in a tuna netand no oneto rescue it so what? i'll act as if i am able try a line or two break out of myself and force a tune even if it's dissonant ashell and obtuse
a good poem this is not a good poem but it's a poemon which i'll build one of the weak onesthat lead to success that bring me to myself in this dark place there will never beanother life in which to do it never another moment like this one, seize it! and what comes of itwill be a testamentto my will: and for that a nodtoward heaven and a nod toward hell just for the thrill just to know i'm alivethat i write! just to knowsomething anything! i will try my hand i will pry open my corroded, aging brain and a poem will be had good or bad pas de grave! it's how i knowwhat i know i write it and it simply is my bodybroken for thee take of it and eat and remember me